Noughties Flapper

When one hears this, it’s likely that they have announced they are contemplating making one of the following:

A soufflé

A chocolat fondant

A batch of macarons

I was contemplating the third option which, by all accounts, was doomed to fail. For this reason I studied a Martin Chiffers recipe forwards, backwards and upside down until I was really sure that I knew what I was supposed to be doing.

I inherited my love of the kitchen gadget from Muv- the owner of the world’s greatest collection of fantastic culinary tat, including a mechanical apple peeler, an electric tin opener and a runner bean de-stringer. I decided some time ago that it was about time I bought a silicone macaron mat. Turns out it was a hugely worthwhile purchase as I’m holding it responsible for my 100% macaron success rate, well, that and Chef Chiffers.

As well as making it ridiculously simple to remove ones cooled macarons, the raised ring shapes mean one can guarantee identically sized bakes.

I did a bit of experimentation with the piping and found that a bigger nozzle was beneficial, and that a smoother shell was achieved by piping into the middle, with strength and confidence, rather than a swirling technique. Lifting the piping bag to finish causes a small ‘nipple’ to develop, as far as I’m aware this is perfectly acceptable in master baker circles, but can be smoothed down with the back of a teaspoon. In fairness I think they look rather sweet.

I didn’t flavour the shells, for fear of ruining the consistency of the mixture, however I did colour them using Wilton’s food colour gel using a combination of brown, red and black. For the filling I made a buttercream which I flavoured with cherry brandy as a nod to one of my favourite Christmas tipples. For the decoration I made a white chocolate ganache, topped with some adorable sugar holly leaves and berries which I picked up in Waitrose.

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It is a fact that my brother William makes the fairest mince pies in the land. Which is surprising as he has exceptionally warm hands- long associated with terrible pastry chefs. Every year it’s a battle to get a batch out of him, and once we’ve eaten them all, a second batch is demanded. It shouldn’t be so difficult to get one’s hands on a mince pie.

As the recipe is kept extremely close to his chest, the solution Muv and I decided, was to attend a mince pie masterclass at Jamie Oliver’s Cookery School then shower the family with millions of pies.

The cookery school is based at London’s Westfield White City shopping centre and is presumably relatively new as everything was gleaming. As we arrived we were presented with a darling apron and talked through the pie concept by our dear cookery teacher/ chef. In conclusion the mincemeat filling can be whatever you want it to be! In this case bulked out with large chunks of sweet, roasted butternut squash.

The process was explained in steps before we were sent off to our cooking station to have a go ourselves. Unfortunately for us, our station was on a kind of galley with several ovens heating at full blast- having been out the night before, the extreme heat didn’t make me feel particularly invigorated.

We were encouraged to cut out pastry stars and the like to stick on top of our pies, but greedy buggers we are, Muv and I decided that a much better use of the pastry was simply to make as many pies as we could. I’m calling our design the sunflower, but call it what you will.

While the pies were steaming in the oven we were given a demonstration of how to make our own mincemeat (the stuff we used had been made up in advance by the team as it takes hours to bubble away), taking it in turns to sniff the delightful smelling fruits and spices. And then, rather unexpected, our dear teacher had to dash off to teach her next class- boy, has Jamie got them working hard! We were left hanging around for a good 10 minutes, until the sous chef came to check on our pies. My advice would have been to release us all out of that roasting hot kitchen, maybe got everyone a drink, and requested that we return in 10 or 15 minutes. I don’t think this is usual procedure thought, as the other class, a hen party perhaps, had tables to sit at and were sipping champagne in a much cooler environment.

Finally our dear little pies were ready. Rather than burn the roofs of our mouths we settled on having the pies boxed up to take away with us, we were even permitted to take a little clingfilmed parcel of our left-over dough which was kind.

We made it as far as Liverpool Street Station before we gave in to temptation and bit into our still-warm pies. Delicious, Christmassy mincemeat, encased in what reminded me of the pastry we used as a kind of modelling clay at Granny’s when we were little- you’d slip the odd bit into your mouth when her back was turned and be extremely disappointed that it tasted of flour, rather that sugar and butter as you’d hoped. It was at that moment I realised that I was never going to be the favourite child. Jamie’s books may line my bookshelves, but sadly his (my) mince pies are no competition for my brother’s.

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After last year’s Christmas creation, the pressure was on envision this year’s masterpiece.

Muv, the dear, had her wooden spoon at the ready on Stir Up Sunday and baked an exquisite fruit cake, stored in the pantry for a month before ‘the handover’.

Fortnum & Mason’s marmalade was warmed and liberally applied to the cake as a glue and a crumb coat.

I made up a batch of marzipan, which is unbelievably easy to do and tastes nothing like the shop-bought variety. This was then rolled out and neatly wrapped around the cake. She then went back into the pantry for 3 days to allow the marzipan to dry out.

Meanwhile-

After reading Mima Sinclair’s Gingerbread Wonderland cover to cover, I set my heart on a gingerbread house cake.

Unfortunately, as my brother has stealthily worked his way though the vast majority of the golden syrup (I dread to think what he’d been doing with the stuff!) the gingerbread was to be a hybrid of light and dark- I hope Mima doesn’t mind such things!

Using a set of Lakeland gingerbread house cutters (cheat!) I set to work on my building blocks. When cutting out shaped biscuits, it’s always advisable to refrigerate them first to help them retain definition during cooking. Although I followed this advice to the letter, I was concerned that the shapes had spread slightly in the oven, so I used the cutters again after baking to make sure they were right. Potentially, the ‘building blocks’ may not have fitted together neatly had I not re-cut, so the open edges and a small amount of cracking from pressing down on the cutter were a small sacrifice.

To avoid any messy disasters, I built my house over several days. Farv frequently reminds me that I could never win Bake Off working at this pace, but now the dream team have split up I’m not sure it even matters!

Day 1: Baked gingerbread
Day 2: Iced design on to flat panels using royal icing
Day 3: Glued walls together using royal icing, supported by many cans of beans

Day 4: Glued cereal squares to roof panels, glued chimney to roof
Day 5: Glued roof panels to house, waited several hours then iced snow detail on to roof
Day 6: Iced cake with royal icing, added toadstools
Day 7: Christmas Eve- crumbs! It’s going to be close! Set house on cake, lit, added forest floor make from chocolate truffles, chocolate swiss rolls and ground almonds.
Day 8: Merry Christmas! Phew!

Below: My second cousin Ethan caught in the act of stealing my window frames- such a cutie!

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It’s become an annual tradition that Petula and I celebrate Halloween in the most unauthodox manner we can think of. Previously we have visited a horror farm, and on another occasion we made a haunted house from pieces of toast.

This year, we killed two birds with one wonderful stone and celebrated Halloween over tea.

Although one has taken tea at The Lancaster previously, and with so many teas to be taken in town it almost seems wasteful to duplicate, however the theme was so vastly different that it was a whole new experience for me.

As we made our way into the tea lounge we were faced by our bloodied and ashen faced server, as silly, young girls do we got the giggles and soon our zombie friend dropped his guard. We were seated at our table and presented with the rather gruesome sounding menu. A cucumber coffin you say?

It is always a joy when Petula and I are permitted to drink our way through the tea menu- a hotel’s speciali-tea (haha!) is usually my first port of call, however on this occasion I’d asked my friend’s permission to have an English Breakfast tea. “Now what is wrong with a cup of EB?” You might ask. “Nothing” I reply, “please feel free to drink EB to your heart’s content.” However, if you are on a voyage of tea discover you won’t get very far from home on English Breakfast. It’s the vanilla of tea, the spaghetti bolognese, the fudge in a box of Miniature Heroes- you can do so much better, my dear. My excuse, if you will hear me out, was that on that particular morning I had taken only one cup of tea using rather old milk, it hadn’t quite turned, but the tea tasted thin and metallic which hung around my throat like a bad memory. Best to get straight back on the horse I thought, remembering the time my brother did fall off a horse, bashed his nose, and was forced to jump straight back on by his girlfriend, despite the blood streaming down his face. In other words, I desperately needed some tea.

“I’ll have a pot of English Breakfast please.”

A request which was greeted with a look of disgust (I can understand, I was disgusted with myself) from our server who proceeded to lecture me on why I shouldn’t have an EB, and that maybe I might like a chai, as though it were some sort of alien concept to me. I can see where he was coming from, chai is rather lovely after all, but I was rather offended that my choice of EB suggested I was boring. It was so condescending that I had to bite my tongue rather hard! This was my only criticism though, as everybody else was more than accommodating.

Well the savouries were rather scrummy, the beef being a favourite, the scones small but perfectly formed (cream in a tube in-keeping with the art theme, but no substitute for clotted cream and rather a meagre amount) and the patisserie was very impressive- the dead man’s finger eclair, as I’m going to call it, a clear winner. Unusually the food was not served on tiered plates in the middle of the table, but on a side-table in a boxed filled with dry ice- a theatrical masterpiece!

Somehow we managed to drag our sitting out for 3 1/2 hours! Sometimes one feels like one is being hurried along, or ignored once a length of time has passed, but not so here- the atmosphere was so comfortable that it seemed a shame to leave. Satisfied that the experience was well worth £35, I’m sure we’ll be back.

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A second-hand teabag, a spoonful of sugar and a large quantity of milk- that’s how I remember it.

We’d be having a sleepover at Nana’s. Already in our pyjamas, with a tea towel tucked into our collars in case of spillage, sipping the warm, milky tea while Sandy Pussycat stretched himself out on the hearth rug.

These are my memories of tea.

***

We’d be at Granny’s, in her farm house kitchen, eating crusty cheese rolls while various dogs wound in and out of table legs and human legs.

The teacups were pale blue or yellow and she always used a teapot. Always milk first. Everyone added their own sugar, which invariably meant you put at least three spoonfuls in your tiny cup.

***

Farv always said you weren’t grown up unless you drank tea or coffee. I tried both. I didn’t like either. Tea didn’t taste the same at home.

***

A builder called Stuart was at our house. He drank tea like a chain-smoker puffed on cigarettes. He had a round, friendly face and we all thought he was wonderful.

Muv would send me to collect his cup for the next round and, completely deadpan, he’d say “I had to chew that!”

“Right, that’s it!” I thought, spooning marmite, gravy granules and a few drops of Tabasco into his brew. George’s Marvellous Medicine.

***

The tea came out of a machine. So did the coffee and the orange squash. I was new and everyone drank something different. A 32, a 34… They all knew the machine’s code for their preference.

The tea was thin and smelt horrid, but the office was cold and the liquid was warming.

I carried six steaming cups on a tray. One of ‘the men’ made me jump and what I didn’t spill on my poor hands became jumbled up in the cups. Hot chocolate-tea was surprisingly pleasant.

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Also known as ‘burning the candle at both ends’, which was a darn-sight easier when I was 18. A decade on, I found myself attending a rather swanky soirée (read boozy work Christmas party) on the Friday night, which lead, uncomfortably straight into a 6am coach trip to the continent. One declined the offer of a hotel room for fear of somewhat over-doing it and missing one’s connection, deciding that it was somehow better to have a minuscule few moments of sleep at home. One rolled out of bed in such an unladylike fashion at 5 o’clock, had the maid fling some clothes on her and her chauffeur put her on the coach.

Some 10 or so hours later, after the most treacherous of channel crossings, our party arrived in Lille.

First thing first, a visit to Sephora. For those of you not familiar, it’s like Superdrug set in a nightclub. Pay on one’s credit card and save the euros for the marché.

Rather a fleeting visit to Lille, but we managed to sample a local delicacy, something like dauphinoise potatoes with a layer of fromage on top. I opted for the mont d’or. Quite lovely. This was followed by a chocolate tête which resembled a Tunnocks teacake. I lugged these about for several hours ’til we gave in and ate them all.

And that was the end of my Lille adventure. We arrived at our hotel, drank some Pschitt (I kid you not) and retired for the night.

We rose early the next morning, breakfasted, and onwards to Belgium.

Belgian chocolate being a staple of one’s diet, Bruges was likely to be one’s idea of heaven.

Having crossed sweet stone bridges and meandered through adorable cobbled streets we popped into this tiny tea room on the promise of the most wonderful hot chocolate. Let me just say they lived up to the claim on their canopy.

After much wandering and purchasing we took luncheon in a café bar advertising something along the lines of, and you’ll have to excuse my Flemish, ‘camembert in de oven’.

Served with apple and bread, it was absolutely divine. And of course one was gasping for a cup of chai by this point… But couldn’t help laughing when a silver tray covered in a paper doily arrived, topped with a glass and a teabag sachet. One couldn’t decide whether they thought they were serving British royalty, or had just got it completely wrong!

I’d spotted a shop earlier in the day and knew I had to drag Muv in there when I had the chance. Dille & Kamille is a kind of Scandi homeware store where everything should be considered for purchase. It was a job to control oneself!

I left with a lovely set of tea leaf measuring spoons, a biscuit cutter, a bag of Christmas tea and a jar of green pesto (a favourite of my brother). I was dangerously close to purchasing a stack of Flemish recipe books but I realised this was madness! This is definitely a shop we’d appreciate in the UK- please bring it over!

At 5pm it was time to embark on the long journey home laden with chocolate. Despite the extreme levels of tiredness one had a rather jolly time. Bruges is definitely worth another visit in the near future, what a wonderful city.

*unless it’s for Netflix & chill, in which case one is permitted to break the rule.

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Christmas pudding is a big deal in the Beetroot household, and not solely reserved for the month of December. One is as likely to have pudding and custard on the 25th December as on 9th March or 28th September.

In previous years Muv and I have got together on Stir Up Sunday to begin our marvellous Christmas cake, making sure everyone has a turn with the wooden spoon for good luck.

This year I saw an advertisement in Good Food magazine for a Christmas pudding masterclass including champagne on arrival and a two-course lunch at none other than The Landmark Hotel- one of my favourite places in London.

A few weeks later, we emerged from Marylebone station to find the splendour of old railway hotel in front of us. Once armed with a flute of champagne, an apron and a chef’s hat, we were seated at a high table with a mixing bowl sunk into the centre and surrounded by many, many ingredients.

Chefs Gary and Oli arrived, talking us though the history of the Christmas pudding, pudding traditions and the world’s most expensive pudding (£23,500 and created by ex-Savoy chef Martin Chiffers, if you’re interested). Then it was time to get our hands dirty; chucking in the ingredients as directed by chef, giving it a good old stir and getting drunk on the scent of the alcohol infused fruit.

Once everything was mixed and given the nod of approval by chef, we divided the mixture between three pudding basins- pressing it down firmly- covered in baking paper, tin foil over the top and tied with string to hold it all together. We were instructed to steam the puddings within the next 24 hours and then keep them in a cool, dark place until they were ready for their second steaming on Christmas Day (if we could wait that long!)

Next came a delightful surprise- a barman from the Mirror Bar arrived with arms full of of cocktail shakers and magically, a host of other ingredients appeared on our tables.
After some pouring, vigorous shaking and a bit more pouring we each had a glass of eggnog. It’s not something we’d tried before, it’s never really appealed in all honesty, but we both really enjoyed it. Thankfully a recipe card was tucked into our gift bag so we’re certain to recreate this festive cocktail in the near future.

By this point, and feeling rather sozzled, we were more than ready for lunch. Smoked salmon followed by slow-cooked beef- absolutely delicious.

Post luncheon we were presented with gift bags containing our three puddings, all beautifully presented in celophane and ribbon, a Landmark embroidered apron, a pudding competency certificate and copies of all the recipes. I think there might have even been a Landmark pen.

Muv either had a wonderful time or still considers herself incompetent, as has asked to book us places next year! Perhaps Gary could run a stollen masterclass instead to broaden our Christmas baking skills.